The guitarist of the Avenue, and the Olive eyed young man
by Nibsfics
Summary: [Human!AU] [OS] Every week, Antonio sits in that one Avenue and plays the guitar for the passersby. Every week, Lovino only waits for the moment he walks past him. This regular, silent meeting will slowly change them both.


**_N/A_**

Yey, so a few days ago I passed by a wonderful street musician and I immediatly got this idea, and yesterday I got a break from courses and I was emotional I just sat down at the library and wrote it uh

Guess this is what you call a plotbunny or whatever

Also I really wanted to try to write in present, and I thought this particular plot was worth the try. You know, live-action and stuff. I don't really like present writting, which is why I find it veeery hard to write it myself, so I made it a challenge.

Excuse the extra-fluffy stuff. I always end up in the cute with these two I can't help it ;u;

* * *

**_EDIT :_ **Uuuh thank you all for the lovely comments, I wasn't expecting such feedback ;u; !

For those asking if I will continue this, and like I said in some PMs, I don't think I will, I'm sorry. I'm still considering it, though. I really don't know.

It _was_ supposed to be a one shot, and I must say I really like the openness it keeps. It's very fresh. In fact it was really an exercise for me. I defined limits beforehand and dealt with it. I wanted to focus on several things with this one, rather than writing a whole complexe thing~

Sorry I talk too much, but here, I like this story a lot (the cute !) but I fear continuing it would ruin it. Here, everything is still open to imagination, you don't know anything about neither of them~ idk. I'm thinking about it.

What is certain is that I will write more things like this, because it's really fun to write. I'm currently working on long-ish fics with well-worked plots, and it's very different. I want to keep writing a nice experience, you know C: try things and stuff~ it's so much fun to finally allow myself to explore this. I've always loved writing, but never really wrote, in the end.

Thanks again for the reviews, and general attention to my fics. You melt my heart ;u;

* * *

.

The man is playing a catchy tune from his guitar, focused, smiling vaguely. The man is beautiful. He doesn't look up, which makes it easier for Lovino to stare. He is tan, with dark and slightly curly hair, dressed in a simple V-neck black T-shirt and jeans, sitting on his chair, just like every week. Sometimes, his shirts have silly bright colors and it makes Lovino smile. He is there, on this Avenue in Sevilla, every Monday and Thursday. Secretly, those have become the days Lovino looks forward to.

But the moment is gone already, and Lovino has no time, so he speeds up his pace and he is gone again.

* * *

The day is bright; a lively spring day. Antonio plays his favorite songs on his guitar, and he sings sometimes, too. Antonio does that for people. Those days he comes to play, he meets so many people, he observes them as they pass. They walk fast or slowly and alone or families or couples or groups. He reads their thoughts on their brows, he exchanges gazes, he smiles to children. Sometimes people stop to listen to him, or change expression as they pass, and these are the best moments. Today, the young man was here again. Antonio wouldn't tell, but he caught sight of him coming from afar, at the same hour as everyday, walking fast and looking stressed, and Antonio saw him slow down while passing him, as everyday, then go back to his life as fast as he came. Sometimes he stops, listens for a minute or two, an unreadable expression on his face. Sometimes they look at each other, and Antonio only sings for him.

Antonio wouldn't tell, but Mondays and Thursdays have become his favorite days.

* * *

When he walks home, Lovino never knows if the guitarist is gonna still be there. It depends of the day, of the weather, and how wide his smile is when Lovino walks past him at noon. And Lovino is pathetic to look forward so much for five minutes at most in the week. And Lovino is lonely in this big city, so far from home. And it won't hurt anyone, if he dreams five minutes a week about the street musician of the Avenue with the green eyes.

* * *

He comes and Antonio smiles. He was considering leaving, since it was late. He stops, and Antonio's heart skips a beat. He looks preoccupied today, and Antonio wishes he could do something, anything, to help. So he sings, because this is the least he can offer, because the young man's eyes always change when he does. He notices Antonio looking at him, and their eyes lock. His eyes are unlike anything Antonio has ever seen. An olive color, so deep and thoughtful, on his slightly tan skin, and always elegant clothing. Who can he possibly be, this young man who walks down the Avenue everyday? What can he possibly want in life? Why is he lonely, this beautiful boy? Antonio asks with his eyes, asks with his fingers running on the strings. Will you stay, today, and let me know everything about you?

The man drops his eyes, as if understanding the silent question, which is a ridiculous thing to think, and he looks like in deep thought for a minute. Antonio wants to stop playing, but he won't. Then the man walks up to him, the closest he's ever been to Antonio, and he leans down...and he leaves something into Antonio's guitar bag. Then he leaves, as fast as always.

Antonio blinks. Money? Seriously? Why would he give him money, now of all times? Antonio can't stand it; he stops playing, and looks down the bag. It's a phone number. Antonio sighs happily. Maybe he can stay here for a little longer, tonight.

* * *

Lovino slams the door of his flat behind him, breath erratic and cheeks burning. Why has he done that? Could he be more ridiculous, damn, could he look more desperate. Lovino hates himself, for being so helpless, so self-conscious, so naive. Why would he give his phone number to a stranger, pretty smile or not? How can he pass him in the Avenue again, now?

Lovino hates himself.

* * *

It's late when Antonio gets home, happy and tired. People began to come outside as the evening stretched, as always, and some of them danced to the sound of his guitar. Quickly, he fumbles through his gains of the day, looking for the most precious of it all.

But it's not there. It's lost. Antonio's hands fly to his hair. What is he gonna do?

* * *

The end of the week goes fast, and Lovino haven't heard anything from the guitarist. So, that's it, he's probably thrown it away when he could. Lovino can't day-dream innocently anymore, and he won't be able to pass by him tomorrow without dying of embarrassement.

* * *

Antonio is on the Avenue earlier than usual. Just in case. He wants to die of embarrassement. How impolite, not even calling once! He feels terrible for losing the number. Is he mad, anxious, did Antonio add more stress on the young man's shoulders? He who is supposed to bring joy in the day of the people walking down the Avenue, he is now the one bringing someone down.

As the morning comes to an end, Antonio gets gradually more anxious. Finally, the familiar shape appears at the other end of the Avenue, that one man that used to bring Antonio's smile with him; Antonio's personal light of the day. He doesn't slow down today, however, actually walking faster instead, and he disapears so fast Antonio isn't sure he could even hear any of his music. Antonio will have to wait.

* * *

All day, Lovino wonders if he should have stopped. He is such a sentimental idiot. Why does he care so much? What could be the man's face today? And will he still be there, tonight?

* * *

Antonio keeps himself busy that Monday, and stays later than usual, once again, inventing all sorts of silly excuses for himself, trying to convince his brain that he isn't desperate to stay just to make it up. Finally, finally, the young man appears in sight, walking slower than this morning, his head low. Antonio doesn't care if he looks ridiculous; this is his only chance.

He promptly gets up, puts his guitar away, and stands in front of him, startling the poor guy. He looks up, olive eyes sinking into Antonio's frantic gaze, and before he can say anything, Antonio blurts eagerly: "Your number! I lost it. I'm sorry."

The man's eyes widen, but he still doesn't say a word, his mouth firmly closed. Antonio smiles. Bright, and happy. He's said what he wanted to say, everything is in place now, his chances are back. What should he say, now?

The young man lowers his head again, but in a relaxed manner, and softly smiles to himself. He is the cutest thing Antonio has ever seen.

"I'm Antonio," he begins, cheeks all warm.


End file.
